“But I—”
“I said,” he repeated, looking at me over his shoulder as he rolled up his sleeves, “go get cleaned.”
“Arkady—”
“I will take care of it.”
All I could do was stare. I couldn’t move.
My husband turned to me. All I saw were the eyes of a dog with its lip curled and hackles erect.
Yet, in his face, there was no anger, no confusion, only a look that could cut anyone down to the bone. He tilted his head at me, brushing a piece of hair from my face, smearing the blood across my skin as he tucked it behind my ear.
“Petronille?”
“Y-yes.” I clenched my eyes shut, then opened again before clearing my throat. “Yes?”
“Are youall right?”
Is he angry with me?
“Yes.”
He nodded, taking my face in both of his hands, even leaning down to meet me eye to eye, his instructions slow and precise. “Go run a bath, take time to settle down, and let me handle this. Do not call for anyone, do not leave the house, do not drink.” His thumb smoothed over my cheek. “No questions, no qualms. Understood?”
I nodded, trembling in his grip, trapped between the jaws of the hound.
Chapter Seven
The Performer
After three baths, I was sure the blood was gone.
But what if it isn’t?
As I sat there in the basin the next morning, the water ran clear, my skin chapped from the scrubbing and lye. But I could have sworn I saw just one drop, maybe a smudge of blood on my hands, that made me think I was not yet clean.
I sank into the lukewarm water, hoping some of it would soothe my aches, my anxiety.
If I emptied the tub now, I might still have time for my fourth bath since last night.
The smell of rosewater and eucalyptus was so sweet to my senses, it was nearly nauseating. Light from the window pooled into the water, highlighting the faint figure of my legs lurking between clotting bubbles.
I’d awoken in the night many times, paranoid about having blood in my hair, my ears, somewhere I missed. Even after his death, I could not rid myself of Vincent. I’d always known him as some sticky leech; I did not know he would be the mess that became of him.
The morning was so painfully normal, all things considered. You would never have guessed we’d murdered a man the day before. Except for the blood on the floorboards and the wall.
The sun still rose above the skyline, the newsboy didn’t lose his voice, the invoices still pushed through the mail slot.
Arkady had disappeared for the night with Mr. Carlisle. Like it was all some inconceivable nightmare, the wool pulled taut over my eyes.
Out of sight, out of my mind.
He’d even abducted my favorite hallway runner; I really loved that rug.
The call came close to dawn, requesting my presence at the botanical gardens. He said to wear somethingprettybefore leaving me hanging on the static of the receiver. That boy needed house training; lessons in a proper conversation should be first.
The only remaining itch at the back of my brain wasn’t even regarding the murder. What scared me more than my deadly reaction was the way Arkady had seemed completely and utterly unfazed. His expression had been something I would expect if I’d burnt dinner or forgotten to extinguish a candle beside the drapes.
